


in memorium

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Fix-It, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Magic, Post Series, Self-Sacrifice, Souls, Time Travel, Yennefer and Jaskier are reluctant allies, Yennefer and Jaskier won't stand for this, alternate universe- geralt died of his ghoul wound, but he looms large in the narrative, geralt is not technically present, though the story technically ends before the fix-it happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23584708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: There’s a monument on the top of Sodden Hill. Tall and dark, carved out of the finest stone and the desperate knowledge that a monument, however grandiose, is a far cheaper price to pay than they deserve. Around the base of the monument, there are 14 names carved in sharp relief; the names of the 14 mages who had died defending this keep. Mages who are household names, their lives cut short, but their deeds immortalised and preserved in the memories of the common folk, destined to be repeated evermore until their transform into legend. Fourteen names. But not his. And not hers.Post series, Geralt has died from the wounds inflicted upon him by the ghouls. Neither Yennefer nor Jaskier intend to let that stand.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, referenced Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, referenced Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 21
Kudos: 79





	in memorium

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched episode 1 with my housemates this evening, finished it, and immediately wrote this. It contains minor spoilers for the books, though nothing huge.  
> I have so many other things that I should be writing, and yet... here we are.

There’s a monument on the top of Sodden Hill. Tall and dark, carved out of the finest stone and the desperate knowledge that a monument, however grandiose, is a far cheaper price to pay than they deserve. Around the base of the monument, there are 14 names carved in sharp relief; the names of the 14 mages who had died defending this keep. Mages who are household names, their lives cut short, but their deeds immortalised and preserved in the memories of the common folk, destined to be repeated evermore until their transform into legend. Fourteen names. But not his. And not hers.

“Is this the place?” Jaskier asked. He hardly needed to; there was no other reason that Yennefer of Vengerberg would have had them meet on this hill. She had no desire to revisit a place forever associated with the death and destruction of her- not her friends. But her compatriots. Her allies, though that could just be time and grief smoothing away their sins.

“Yes,” she replied regardless, staring sightlessly ahead. Her eyes would recover; the finest mages and healers in the land had assured her of that. Anything for one of the heroes of Sodden. But in this moment, they were nothing but fleshy lumps that sat heavily in her head, condemning her to a world of shade and shadow. Darkness and despair. She did not share her thoughts with the bard. No doubt he would want to write a ballad with them, and she didn’t have the strength for that. Not yet and probably not ever.

“The merchant Yurga told me that he buried Geralt at the base of the hill, left his swords as a headstone.”

“I didn’t see any swords.”

“They were stolen, probably. I imagine that a good sword was worth a lot, in those days after the battle.”

Neither of them would know. Yennefer had been an incoherent mess; burnt out and shaking as five mages worked tirelessly to stitch her back together again. Jaskier had been in Oxenfurt, ostentatiously safe behind its stone walls. Even from Oxenfurt they had been able to see Yennefer’s fire; the sky lighting in an inferno befitting of the gods. They had cowered, scholars and students and townsfolk all and had wondered who had reigned victorious. Whether they had to fear the death and destruction that followed the Nilfegaardian army like carrion crows.

Jaskier took a shuddering sigh; Yennefer could hear the tears in his breath and the grief in his voice and she envied him. Fiercely and utterly. It had been two months since the battle, and not once had she been able to cry.

“Yennefer,” he said eventually, his voice cracking. “I don’t understand what you need me to do. This- this is far beyond anything that I could imagine, let alone fix. There’s nothing here _to_ do. Nothing but mourn and drink, and you seem to disapprove of me doing that.”

“I need what few brains you have left unpickled, bard,” she said.

“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear. But I don’t understand what _for._ ”

Yennefer was silent a moment. And then-

“Have you forgiven him?” she asked.

“Who?”

She didn’t reply. They both knew who she was talking about. There was a reason they were both here, on this hill, staring out at a grave that was not their own.

“No,” Jaskier says, his voice cracking. “I haven’t. I’m still so astonishingly angry at him- so angry not just because of what he said to me, that day on the mountain. But because the bastard had the audacity to die before we could meet again. And fix it.” He swallowed. “I know,” he continued unsteadily. “I know that I should forgive him. He’s- he’s dead after all. But I just can’t bring myself to. It feels too much like giving up.”

“I hate him,” Yennefer said, once it became apparent that he’d finished talking. “Because he bound me to him with that thrice bedamned djinn’s wish. Because he died ignobly, taking out a pack of ghouls. Because he made me feel things that I still can’t untangle, things are either love or loathing or both. And because I can still feel him. His death has not freed me from our bond; it has only made it stronger.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, his voice fainter as he turned his head. “Geralt was like that. A right bastard, but he knew how to get under your skin. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

His last words were faint, spoken in a half-whisper as if to himself. Yennefer heard them anyway. They echoed through her heart, resonating and amplifying her own sentiments. She had only known the Witcher six years, but already her world looked bleaker without him. Whether that was due to Destiny’s cruel threads or some softer sentiment that had never had the opportunity to grow before being caught in the web of fate, she would never know.

“What if you didn’t have to?” she asked. Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. Steady enough but distant. As though it didn’t belong to her, as though some god or another was speaking through her, and she was naught but a mouthpiece.

“What do you mean?”

“What if you didn’t have to envisage a life without your Witcher? If you could snatch his soul from Destiny’s hands, return him to the realm of the living. What would you give for that?”

Jaskier’s words are immediate. “ _Anything,_ ” he breathed. “I would give anything.”

“Your voice?”

“Yes.”

“Your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Your music?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“And what about your life?”

“When I said anything, Yennefer,” Jaskier said. “I meant it. Wholeheartedly. I would give anything to see Geralt of Rivia safe and alive.”

“Ah,” said Yennefer. “But perhaps that’s the price. What if the White Wolf could walk once again upon these mortal planes but- you were not there to see him. You were obliterated, body and soul.”

“I don’t think you understand me when I say anything,” Jaskier said. “As you keep asking me the same question, over and over. Geralt of Rivia’s life is more important than mine and even if it wasn’t, even if he were Geralt the stablemaster or Geralt the farmer or Geralt the innkeeper, I still wouldn’t hesitate.”

“Good,” Yennefer said, swallowing. Her throat was strangely dry. “That’s good to hear.”

“Do you mean it?” Jaskier asks, and his voice is louder now. “I’ve heard of no spells that can bring back a dead man. Not truly. Not as they were. And definitely none that would work on a body months in the ground. Though perhaps the smell would not be dissimilar.” His voice trails off at the end, the joke falling flat.

“There are no such spells,” Yennefer said. “None that I could find. Not on the Isle of Thanedd, in the great libraries of Aretuza and Ban Ard. Not in the famed institute of Oxenfurt. Not in the back allies of Novigrad.”

“Then why ask me that? Why tease me and torment me with a question that has no purpose?”

“I didn’t say that, Jaskier.” She used his name; frivolous and petty and mortal as he might be, he was also the one person in this world who might understand what she was feeling. She owed him that, at least.

“Then what are you saying! You’re being incredibly obtuse, even for you, Yennefer.”

She turned sharply, her hands raised and only slightly shaking. A portal opens before them, bathing them both in its magic.

“Come with me, Jaskier,” she said. “And I promise you that I can bring Geralt back.” And then she stepped into the portal.

#

“Time travel,” Jaskier said. He was aiming for an incredulous tone, but was somewhat off the mark, his usual wit made blunt with grief. Yennefer nodded at him, those unseeing eyes staring straight into his soul. She did not have the look of a woman who was lying. She did rather resemble a madwoman, though, or perhaps a prophet of old. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, highlighting the sharp lines of her face. She was dressed in her usual black, but in a gown plainer than he had ever seen her in, more suited to a farmer’s wife than a powerful sorceress. There were shadows around her eyes, so dark that they could be mistaken for eyeshadow if it were not for her exhausted mien. And her hands trembled where they laid flat against her workbench.

“Yes,” Yennefer said. “Time travel.”

“Is that possible?”

“More possible than raising the dead.”

“Then why is it not done more often? Kings changing their defeats to victories. Sorcerers bringing back their loved ones, slaughtered before their time. Hells, Yennefer, if this was an option why didn’t you use it for your own quest? Why didn’t you just travel back and change the past, make it so that you never underwent the final transformation-”

“Because it doesn’t work like that!” Yennefer snapped. “Because this is magic that is forbidden, utterly forbidden. Because I had no idea that it existed until after Sodden, and I went digging through every magical scroll and text that I could find! Because before I gained my ‘status’ as hero- it might surprise you to hear this, Jaskier- but before then I was an outcast. Not welcome in Aretuza, or any other hall of magical learning!”

She took a deep steadying breath. “And because,” she continued, “Because there is a price to the magic. For any change. A life for a life. A soul for a soul. And the world remains in equilibrium.”

“Ah,” said Jaskier. “Hence why you need me, I presume.”

Yennefer gave a wordless sob, and then collapsed once again. “Yes,” she said. “That is why I need you.”

“Not that I’m advocating this in any way,” Jaskier said. “But why me? Why not, oh, some random Nilfegaardian soldier? No one would mourn one more soldier.”

“And they would mourn you?” Yennefer snapped back, quick as a thought. “No. That was unfair. I had the same thought but- It has to be someone linked to Geralt. Someone who Destiny could bear to swap for him.”

“That’s not me,” Jaskier, despite the pang in his breast. “I’m not linked to Geralt by anything but fate and circumstance-”

“-but I am.” Yennefer said. “I am, or I was linked to him. We could use his Child Surprise but-”

“But she’s a child,” Jaskier continued, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Even for Geralt, I couldn’t. We couldn’t.”

“Ah, but didn’t you say anything?” Yennefer asked, but Jaskier could see that her heart was not in it. No, neither of them could sacrifice an innocent child to bring their Witcher back, and if they did then no doubt they would be the next monster that Geralt killed. And they would deserve it.

“I still don’t understand why you need me then,” Jaskier said.

Yennefer looked up at him and gave a tired smile.

“Because, Jaskier,” she said. “Not all of us are as self-sacrificial as you. And I would like to live through this.” She took a breath. “The deal is a soul for a soul,” she said. “A life for a life. But- perhaps I do not need an entire soul to live.” She looked up at him, and her hollow eyes were grim. “Perhaps neither of us need an entire soul to live.”

“You want us both to travel back,” Jaskier whispered. “Sacrifice your soul to appease Destiny. And then-”

“And then see if we can share yours, yes.”

“Would that work?”

Yennefer shrugged. “It’s never been done before,” she said. “But it should. From what I’ve been able to find.”

“And we would both survive? Intact?”

“Ideally,” Yennefer replied. “It would be hard to find Geralt otherwise.”

“Find Geralt? Surely all we need to do is to save him from those ghouls?” Even as he finished speaking, Yennefer was shaking her head.

“No,” she said. “There cannot be two of us in the same time, do you understand? If we go back then our past selves will die. Be extinguished.”

“I still don’t see the problem.”

“Perhaps you were doing nothing more important than getting drunk, two months ago,” Yennefer said tartly. “But I was more productively occupied. Preventing the Nilfegaard invasion.”

“Ah,” Jaskier said. “Yes, that would not be fortuitous time for your younger self to die. Then what do you suggest? Go back earlier? A year? Two? Refuse to leave him on that mountainside?”

“No,” Yennefer said. “What I suggest is going back much further than that. Prevent the Nilfegaardian invasion from occurring in the first place. Stop it all.”

That- the vastness of that undertaking overwhelmed him for a moment, and he staggered back. Seemingly prepared, Yennefer thrust a full goblet of wine at him, and he gulped it desperately, relishing the burn of the alcohol.

“How,” he whispered. “I don’t even know where we would begin something like that.”

“But I do. Sometime between 1230 and 1237, the Nilfegaardian emperor Fergus var Emreis was deposed from the Nilfegaardian throne by a Usurper. Who was subsequently deposed by Fergus’ son, Emhyr var Emreis in 1257.”

“And then we do what, depose them? Kill the child before he grows up to conquer the Northern Kingdoms? I don’t like this plan, Yennefer.”

“Then it’s a good job that this isn’t the plan,” she snapped back at him. “No, the plan is that I take Fringilla’s place in the Nilfegaardian court. Stop the Usurper from taking power. Make sure that Nilfegaard is never a threat.”

“And how are you planning on that?”

Yennefer smiled. It was a thing of fierce and wild beauty, and Jaskier shivered despite himself. It reminded him of why he had been so afraid of her when they had first met, irrespective of the knife to his balls. 

“I kill Fringilla,” she said. “It should be easy enough; she coasted by on nepotism alone. I’m more than a match for her. And I was meant to go to Nilfegaard in any case.”

“Then your entire plan rests on your political prowess? Forgive me, but that seems rather- outside of your normal purview.”

“I spent decades in the Aedirn court. You don’t think I know how to politic with the best of them? I simply choose not too.”

“That’s fair enough,” Jaskier said, raising his hands in defeat. “But once again, I don’t understand why you would choose me to go with you. You’re the important one here, why not meld our souls or whatever you’re planning on, and then keep mine for yourself? I give it freely- there! Surely it would be safer for you to survive on one whole- if somewhat second-hand- soul than to try and subsist on half? I ran away from court, as I’m sure you well know, and unless you want me to sleep with Fergus’ wife, then I can’t think why you would need me. You seem to have this all tied up.”

“You have an incredibly low self-esteem for a narcissist,” Yennefer said.

“Only when it comes to the important things,” Jaskier replied glibly.

“If you’re speaking of important things, bard,” Yennefer growled, leaning forward and doing a remarkable- if unconscious- impression of Geralt. “Then remind yourself what happened in 1231.”

“Many things,” Jaskier said, “Though as I was only 9 at the time, I doubt I could tell you what they were.”

“Thing harder. What happened to our mutual friend at that time.”

Abruptly, Jaskier felt as though all the air had been punched from his lungs. “Oh,” he said, voice small.

“Exactly,” Yennefer said, leaning back and resuming her original position. “If we’re to travel back to that period anyway, I think that 1231 is the best choice. Are we in agreement?”

Jaskier looked up at her, distant and fey and magical. Tried to imagine sharing a soul with her. She stared back implacably. The silence stretched on. Finally, the bard nodded.

“We are,” he said. And that was that.

#

_It’s 1231. There are bandits on the road, led by the fierce Shrike, Renfri of Creyden. The wizard Stregobor hides in his tower, surrounded by his books and his illusions, and waits for a miracle. The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, battles a kikimora._

_And a bard and a sorceress walk into Blaviken._

**Author's Note:**

> I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)
> 
> This is not beta read as my beta has sensibly gone to sleep.


End file.
